


Damsel in Distress

by goblinish



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-07
Updated: 2011-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-30 01:30:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goblinish/pseuds/goblinish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur keeps getting hit on by the worst sort of men. It makes Eames cranky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Damsel in Distress

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** sexual harassment, grabbing around the waist, some verbal nastiness (not in the pairing). Please be careful.

**damsel in distress**

1\. 

The first time it happens, it's actually pretty hilarious. 

The guy is tall - a few inches taller than Arthur, at least - solidly built, with grey hair at the temples and something in his bearing that says ex-military. His name is Jonas.

He's been chatting up Arthur for a half hour or so. The guy isn't Arthur's type - too grave, seems a little boring - but if the stranger's smile is hard-won it's also lovely, a small genuine thing that sits more around the eyes than his mouth. 

Still, Eames isn't particularly worried. Not that he'd have the right to be, anyway, because he and Arthur aren't exclusive - it's just a thing. After they do a job on the same team, or just in the same general area (region. country. continent), sometimes they end up in the same hotel room for a few weeks. 

"Is that your boyfriend?" Eames hears, and he turns back to the lovely Charlotte, she of the short skirt, fuck-me heels and mile-long legs in between. "He's rather delectable." She's eying Arthur cheerily, and Eames can see her shifting away from come-home-with-me mode. 

"What? No. Just friends." 

She arches one eyebrow, and he grins. 

" - who fuck."

She hums a bit. "Now, that's a great mental picture," she says wickedly, and he laughs.

"I'd better get back to my friend. Thanks for the dance," Eames says. He tells the bartender to put another drink for her on his tab and heads back to Arthur. 

Arthur and the guy - Jonas - are in the midst of a serious debate regarding the respective advantages of their favorite sidearms. 

Arthur looks up at Eames' approach. "We were both in Iraq," Arthur says, by way of greeting.

"Different wars," Too Old For Arthur adds, ruefully. 

Arthur, Eames knows, was never in Iraq, but Eames mentally gives Old Guy a couple points anyway, because he must have recognized Arthur as former military. That's not something Arthur usually volunteers to new acquaintances. 

"How interesting," Eames says, and flashes his best, most charming grin. "You ready to go, darling?"

Arthur raises a brow, looking amused (looking rather like Charlotte had a few moments ago, actually. No wonder she seemed like Eames's type). "Sure."

"Great," Eames says. "Nice to meet you, John."

"Jonas," Arthur corrects mildly. 

Old Guy nods to Arthur, seemingly immune to Eames' charming smile. "Good night," he says, polite but not unfriendly. Arthur nods back, and he and Eames leave.

Outside, as they're walking back to Eames's hotel, Arthur asks, "'Darling'? Really?" 

"What about it?" Eames demands.

"It sounded like you'd forgotten my name," Arthur says, but he sounds amused.

"Your current alias is James Wyatt," Eames replies promptly.

"Alright. So, was that your way of staking a claim?"

"Of course not," Eames huffs. "I've no claim on you."

"That would be correct," Arthur says, "unless, of course, I give you one." 

Eames holds his breath. 

Arthur studiously straightens his shirtcuffs. "I'm disinclined to allow you a claim," he says, nonchalant, "if you're going to call me ridiculous pet names in public."

"Well, then, I promise only to call you darling in private."

"Alright then." 

"Alright then." 

Arthur seems to be waiting for something.

Eames clears his throat. "I don't really see anyone else. But you. These post-job things, I mean - that's been it, for me. For awhile."

"Oh," Arthur says, looking surprised but tentatively pleased.

"Funny," Eames says thoughtfully, after a few silent, companionable minutes of walking. "He's not your type - Jonas - but honestly, I wouldn't have guessed you were his, either. You both need someone more lively," he adds smugly. "Like me."

"Oh," Arthur says. "He wasn't hitting on me, really. Not at first. Um."

And the thing is, Arthur's not cold or dispassionate, no matter what his workplace reserve or his razor-sharp suits might lead one to believe, but he's usually more precise than _um_. 

Eames feels a smile tugging at his mouth; there's something interesting here. "Oh, now. What's this?"

And to Eames' surprise (and absolute _delight_ ), Arthur flushes. Arthur never flushes. 

Eames grins. "Tell me."

Arthur slants a sideways glance at him, and for a minute Eames thinks Arthur isn't going to say anything. But: "He's in law enforcement now, actually. And he wanted to - to warn me, I guess, or at least suggest I choose somewhere else to…" He pauses. "He may have thought -" 

" _No_ ," Eames interrupts, and he can't help it: he bursts out laughing. "He thought you were a hooker?"

"Shut up," Arthur says. He gives Eames a mock-annoyed look, though humor still lingers around the corners of his mouth.

Eames stops laughing but doesn't bother trying to look subdued, reveling in cheerful schadenfreude. "How odd," he says lightly. "That Zegna is so beautifully tailored."

"Don't be too smug," Arthur says, smirking, and Eames suddenly knows what he's going to say. "He thought _you_ were my -"

So Eames kisses him, because really, there's no need for name calling. Arthur smiles right on into the kiss, then licks across Eames's bottom lip, and Eames opens under him like the most gullible mark. 

The kiss is slow and dirty, all lust and want and growing urgency. Eames rests one hand behind Arthur's neck and uses the other to pull Arthur in at the small of his back, then stumbles backwards until he hits the brick wall of the nearest building, pulling Arthur flush against him. Arthur groans quietly, and Eames feels heat coil low in his stomach. 

Arthur breaks the kiss, then pauses, staring at Eames's lower lip. He leans in again to nip at it, gently, then steps back. 

" - pimp," Arthur finishes in a whisper, and smiles, a little bit wicked and clearly pleased with himself about it.

"Oh, fuck you," Eames says with a laugh, and Arthur, still smiling, says, "Works for me." 

They go back to their hotel room, where Arthur presses him into the bed and rides him - luxuriously, maddeningly slow - and Eames begs and swears and makes the most filthy, explicit promises of revenge -

All of which he fulfills the next morning. 

All told, an excellent night.

 

2\. 

The second time, though - Eames doesn't really know what to make of it. 

Fresh off separate jobs in opposite corners of New England, Eames and Arthur are two and a half months into a pseudo-vacation in New York, and Arthur's warm reserve has eased to the point where he might almost look casual from a distance. Eames has seen Arthur in a t-shirt seventeen times, and they may or may not have paid a visit to the Met and replaced Monet's _Houses of Parliament (Effect of Fog, 1903-4)_ with a forgery. 

Eames loves New York.

A band Arthur really likes is playing at a club Eames doesn't hate, so they're going to go. Eames prepares himself for a night listening to either a whiny soulful woman or an unintelligible, soulful man. 

But Arthur's right; the band is _good_. A lot of the songs sound the same, but they share a strong, relentless backbeat, the kind that sinks down your spine, makes you want to melt and move against the nearest warm body. Halfway into the set Eames is riding a low-level arousal, and Arthur is watching him, eyes dark, with the kind of liquid composure that Eames knows means planning, and intent. 

Because Eames plays dirty, he bites his lower lip and watches Arthur's breath catch. Eames smirks, but his throat goes dry. 

So, yeah. They need drinks. Eames heads to the bar. 

The bartender is the friendly, flirty sort, late-twenties or early thirties, and though he fixes drinks with admirable dexterity, there's an almost post-coital languor to his movements that says the music got to him, too. His hands are almost as beautiful as Arthur's.

Eames flirts while he waits. Nick the Bartender is a good-natured out-of-work actor, with a surprising and delightfully mean sense of humor, and he shrugs philosophically when Eames declines to meet him in the men's. 

Eames heads back to Arthur with drinks in hand, and quickly sees that Arthur's new friend is not anywhere near as awesome as Eames's. 

The guy is older - with most people he could probably pass for forty, but Eames would put him closer to fifty - and…pretty damn hot, actually. There's confidence in every line of his body. While Arthur wears his suits like weapons, sharp edges for the unwary to cut themselves against, this guy wears a suit jacket like a status symbol. This is a man who is used to getting what he wants. 

He is standing in Arthur's personal space. 

Arthur is wearing the pinched, carefully polite expression that he adopts when he's trying not to punch someone. Eames can't hear what Arthur says to the guy, but the asshole just moves closer. 

Arthur can be pretty damn unwelcoming, but Eames knows he probably won't choose to say anything blunt enough to start a scene. Arthur almost certainly won't get violent, not in public at least, no matter how clear a rejection it is to point a gun at someone's dick. 

Arthur doesn't like drawing attention to himself. 

This is not a problem for Eames. He makes his way over, mentally rifling through a couple different options for what to say. He's going to try for phenomenally rude. 

For a moment, Eames loses sight of them through the crowd. He reaches them just as the man holds out his drink to Arthur, who is declining with all the disbelieving scorn Arthur can muster (which is a fuckton), but then - _something_ \- quite possibly the _tiniest girl_ Eames has ever seen - shoves her way through the crowd, bursts into their little group, and knocks the drink out of the guy's hand. 

The man sputters, " _What_ the…? _Fucking_ -" 

She punches him. 

He reels back just as the current song ends, and the girl's words fall into the strange hush that follows. "He put something in that drink," she shouts angrily. "I saw him."

Everyone stares at her. Her dyed-black hair is in two long wavy pigtails. She looks about twelve. 

There's a strange fury burning through Eames. He wants to commit murder. He looks at Arthur, who blinks back at him.

"I did _not_ ," the Soon To Be Dead Asshole says, holding his nose. It's bleeding. Anger twists his face.

Asshole grabs the girl's arm with his other hand, his fingers tight enough to bruise. Her eyes go wide, and she tries to pull her arm from his grip but he's too strong, and Eames and Arthur and others from the crowd all start reaching for them and Asshole lets go of his nose to get both hands on her, but then she scrambles in her hoodie for something - Jesus, some kind of stick? - and starts _wailing on his arm._

Arthur and Eames each grab one of Asshole's arms, hauling him off the girl, and her stick-thing falls to the ground but she just launches herself back at him, claws extended. 

"Oh my God, Amy," Eames hears someone whisper off to the left, long-suffering, and then a stupidly tall kid with hair flopping in his face snakes an arm around the girl's waist and physically pulls her off. Her kicking feet manage to wallop Asshole in the nose one more time, and Eames hears the _crack_ with vicious satisfaction. 

Needless to say, they all get kicked out. 

"Are you alright?" the girl - Amy - asks Arthur. 

Arthur still looks kind of dumbfounded. "Yes," he says. "Thank you."

"You shouldn't accept drinks from strange men," she tells him.

"Okay," Arthur says. "That seems like good advice."

"Was that a night stick?" Eames asks her.

"Nah," Amy says. "It's my baton. I'm drum major this year," she adds, proudly. The tall kid behind her winces. 

"Of a high school band?" Arthur asks. 

Amy pauses. "Um," she says. "No. Because that would mean I was underage. And we are not underage." 

She presses her lips together. 

"At all," she adds, presumably for emphasis. 

The tall kid rolls his eyes. "Come on," he says. "We should get back before curfew." He looks at Arthur, who is currently broadcasting concern and an aura of respectability. "The curfew we don't have."

They leave. 

"You," Eames says, "just got rescued by a twelve-year-old." 

"Band majors," Arthur says coolly, "are typically seniors."

"A seventeen-year-old. A seventeen-year-old _band geek._ "

"Shut up."

Eames's fury is retreating, leaving something shaky and vaguely hysterical in its wake. Eames can't help it: he starts giggling.

"Seriously, Eames," Arthur says, rubbing a hand down his face. "Shut the fuck up."

But Eames honestly can't stop giggling, so Arthur starts, too.

 

3.

By the third time, it isn't even the smallest bit funny anymore. 

True to form, this one is about forty, forty-five. He's also _big_ , built like a tank, all solid muscle just starting to go soft. He's got the look of a former athlete, the kind who's proud of his high school glory days and keeps up the work, but enjoys one too many beers. He's in an ill-fitting sport coat that screams _inferiority complex_ , or possibly _used car salesman._

Eames doesn't think much of it when the guy follows Arthur into the bathroom, but seconds later Arthur strides right back out the bathroom door with a face like marble, Mr. Used Car Salesman right on his heels. 

Eames stands.

Car Salesman grabs Arthur around the waist - clumsily, so the movement pulls Arthur's shirt from his waistband and the guy's hand touches skin. Blood rushes through Eames's ears and he starts moving toward them. Arthur snaps out something at Car Salesman that Eames can't hear, but the man's reply reverberates throughout the room. 

"What," Car Salesman demands, red in the face, "is my money not good enough for you?" 

Eames is going to kill something.

Everyone is staring at them - a scene is already caused. Eames sees the moment Arthur decides to act; Arthur grabs the hand at his waist, then there's a loud _snap_ and Car Salesman screams, pulling his hand back and cradling it in the other. Two of his fingers are broken. 

Arthur walks back to their table, passing Eames without a word or a glance. "We are going to leave," Arthur announces to the bar at large. He looks up at their waiter, standing at the door to the kitchen with wide, startled eyes. "Please bring us two to-go boxes."

Their waiter - Chris, he'd introduced himself as Chris - nods, and disappears into the kitchen. 

Arthur methodically pulls on his jacket, straightens the sleeves over his shirt cuffs, and then lays his coat over his arm. 

He looks up. "Eames," Arthur says blandly. "Do you want the rest of your drink?"

Eames does. He desperately does. "No," he says, and Arthur takes his glass and downs it at once. 

They leave.

"What the fuck," Eames says. Arthur doesn't reply.

In their hotel room, Arthur kisses Eames, slow and gentle. Eames frames Arthur's face in his hands. He kisses back. 

 

4\. 

The fourth time, Eames fucks up. 

Their latest post-job idyll started so beautifully. Yusuf had sent Eames away from his last job with a couple experimental compounds, which he and Arthur naturally decide can best be tested with lots and lots of dream sex. Then, of course, to judge the real-world aftereffects, they christen every surface of their hotel room. 

Arthur is the most beautiful thing Eames has ever seen, begging, demanding, falling apart, spread out on the bed, bent over the desk, in him and over him and under him and - Eames wants to paint him, he wants to paint masterpieces for him. 

It's a few days before they emerge, in a post-coital haze. Eames is stupid in love, and pleasantly sore, but really fucking hungry. Arthur looks a bit like he got run over by a truck. A sex truck. He's fucking gorgeous. 

But, see, "stupid" is the operative word of "stupid in love," so when they're in the bar and yet another fucking bastard grabs Arthur, some primitive dumbass corner of Eames's lizard brain snarls out _Mine_. 

This one could stand in a line-up with the others. Tall, a little older (though if his hair is greying, he's dyed it), with impressive musculature and an inability to understand "no." Eames is starting to miss Jonas. 

"What the fuck is your problem?" Eames is yelling. "He said he's not interested," and Eames balls his hands into fists and shoves them into this guy, who falls into a passing waiter, who then falls to the floor with a resounding crash. Eames is so angry he can't see straight. 

Arthur's face is utterly impassive. 

Eames shoves his hands violently through his hair, and reaches down to help the waiter up. The waiter squeaks, looking over Eames's shoulder, and Eames straightens and spins around just in time to get socked in the jaw by Arthur's newest admirer. 

"I think you all should go!" The waiter says from the ground, glaring at all of them. "Now!"

They go. 

Eames and Arthur walk back in silence, which is probably for the best - Eames is still so angry, too angry to think, let alone talk.

When their hotel comes into sight, Arthur pauses on the sidewalk near the alley entrance, eying the doors of their hotel, a block and a half away. 

"Am I supposed to thank you?" Arthur asks, voice even.

"No," Eames says warily. 

"Are you under the impression that I can't take care of myself?" Arthur's tone is pleasant, but his demeanor is measured, contained. He's at his most dangerous.

" _No_ ," Eames snaps. "I know you can. And you know that."

Arthur nods. He continues on to the hotel entrance. Eames follows, frustrated.

That night, Arthur puts his hands on Eames, pushes him onto the bed. He's gentle, and ruthlessly impersonal; this is how Arthur does angry. It's infuriating. Eames isn't even really sure who Arthur's angry at. 

Arthur kisses him, and Eames kisses back dirty-sweet and slow. He uses his lips and teeth and tongue and every trick he's got, demanding that Arthur be _present_ \- and oh, suddenly the kiss turns bruising, and Eames gasps into Arthur's mouth. 

Arthur melts into Eames, and his slender fingers grip Eames's hips with need and urgency, a more honest cruelty. Eames holds on.

 

5\. 

So yes, Arthur absolutely can take care of himself, but the thing is, the fifth time? There isn't going to be a fifth time. 

They are in New York again - have been gravitating back here between jobs, actually, like some kind of reverse base of operations. Eames has maybe been wondering if they should invest in a flat, or something. He could totally fix shit around the house. He'd buy a hammer.

They're eating a late dinner, because Arthur just flew in from a job that morning, and he slept most of the day away. They're in a dive bar, but the people generally keep to themselves and the food is always good. It starts out as a perfectly pleasant meal. 

This time, the guy is about 6'4", with greying blond hair, an air of entitlement, and the kind of muscles you sculpt in a gym. Eames returns from the bathroom and this guy is standing at the bar next to Arthur's chair, he has a hand on Arthur's arm, he's in Arthur's fucking _space_ , and Arthur is radiating chilly indifference but the guy is just _leaning in_ and fuck, okay, Eames just hauls back and punches the asshole. 

Oops.

The guy _drops_ , and the whole bar stills. Arthur stares at him, and then his features go unreadable. Shit. 

The guy on the floor blinks, leans up on his elbow, and blinks some more. He looks like a moron. Eames glares at him. 

Slowly, one man stands, and then another a few tables away. The people at the pool table shift a little, start holding their cue sticks like weapons. 

The newest asshole scowls and starts to lever himself up off the floor, and Arthur says, "Right. We'll be going now." He nods to the room in general, grabs Eames's arm, and strides for the exit, his movements fast and efficient. He hauls Eames out the door.

Arthur's mouth is tight. "What was that?" he asks. 

_Apologize_ , the smart part of Eames's brain demands, but what comes out is, "I should have kicked him, too." 

"Mr. Eames."

"He _touched you_ ," Eames says, glowering, and the hard line of Arthur's mouth sort of…twitches. "Wait," Eames says, and stops in his tracks. "Wait, are you _laughing_?"

Arthur keeps walking. "Were you an only child?"

"You're laughing!"

"It would really be best that we don't stay in the parking lot," Arthur says, and looks back. He's smiling.

They walk. Eames's hand aches a little, and he is stubbornly, perversely glad of it. 

"I'm the oldest," Eames says after a minute. 

"I know," Arthur says easily, which is probably true. 

" - of three," Eames continues, deliberate. Arthur pauses, looks at him. 

He tells Arthur their names. He tells Arthur his own name.

Arthur's smile is brilliant. 

They walk into their hotel foyer, and Eames says, "I'm sorry." He even means it. Maybe.

"No you're not," Arthur says, fondly.

In their room, Arthur removes his cufflinks, sets them on the bedside table. He looks at Eames and smirks, just a little.

"My _hero_ ," Arthur drawls. 

And Eames tackles him to the bed, laughing.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Author's Note** 10/20/2013:  
>  I'm extremely fond of this fic, and still so pleased that people liked it. I wanted to write again so badly, and something about _Inception_ , or maybe Inception fandom, made me feel like I had a story in me. I remember scouring the meme looking for a prompt that spoke to me, and I'm really glad I found this one, because it turned out that a "five things" story structure was a good way to ease myself back into writing and exploring characters, and because the prompt was so much fun, and because it turned out I had Opinions about jealousy and possession and the assumptions people make based on appearances. I'd forgotten how easy writing could be, if you just had something to say. And Amy is still one of my favorite OCs. 
> 
> Fun fact: Jonas was the only one of the five who got a name because he's the only one I didn't hate. He was very (very very) loosely inspired by NCIS's Gibbs.
> 
> I would also like to share that this word document has always been called "good lord." 
> 
>  
> 
> Originally posted here: http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/17669.html?thread=37223173  
> (Warning that the prompt includes the potential for non-con)


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